


By the Bi

by emilycare



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Anniversary, Bisexual John Watson, Coming Out, Couch Cuddles, Die Hard References, Fluff, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Getting Together, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Yes they are watching Die Hard, there was only one couch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilycare/pseuds/emilycare
Summary: It's been a year of living together. Sherlock and John are getting more comfortable with one another. A bit. John's out of sorts tonight though.Irene Adler insisted to John that he and Sherlock are in a relationship. This has John rethinking his understanding of himself. And Sherlock...well, is Sherlock. But in the face of some movie night cuddling, key information--finally--is shared.
Relationships: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 105
Collections: Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	By the Bi

It was cozy on the couch. When Sherlock wasn't hogging it. Telly nights were a moment John got to take up his duly allotted space. 

Falling asleep on their sofa was Sherlock's thing. Well, laying there in a distant meditation, hands steepled beneath his chin. John suspected his odd flatmate was shamming about half the time he purported to being awake. Even after nearly a year of cohabitating John had his doubts about how anyone could maintain the schedule the rude genius seemed to. 

Tonight John had shoved Sherlock's legs aside. Thrust a bowl of buttered popcorn in the man's lap, and pulled up one of his favorite Christmas films, despite the volley of complaints, gesticulation and restless foot tapping these actions provoked. 

"Sherlock, you don't have to like it. But I need to unwind. Do what you want, but I'm entitled to use this space, too."

Sherlock's grumbling subsided to rolled eyes by the time John McClane left the airplane. He shoved his cold toes beneath John's thigh. John glared at him but anchoring his feet seemed to calm Sherlock's fidgety energy, so he didn't object. 

John scooped up handfuls of the popcorn from the bowl. Dropped kernels littered his lap and tumbled onto the floor as he shifted, trying to get comfortable. He rolled his neck and shoulders, wincing at the sharp pain that lanced through him. 

"You haven't been doing your exercises." Sherlock's tone was accusatory. 

"Says you, who's supposedly quitting smoking. Don't think I haven't smelled it on you." 

"I don't make my living from my lungs, John. You're no help to me in the Work if you're hunched over in pain all the time. You're not able to perform surgery anymore, I wouldn't think you would want to ruin the rest of your medical career out of neglect."

John huffed out a gasp. He was so used to seeing Sherlock sharpen his blade on others, he forgot sometimes how it pierced when the man took aim at him. John paused the film and looked down at his lap, emotions churning. 

He felt Sherlock's toes curl, still tucked beneath his leg. John shook his head slightly and contemplated walking out of the flat into the dark of the night. The warmth and the clutter suddenly closed in on him. His thoughts wheeled. 

A hand touched his shoulder gently. Looking over at Sherlock's face he was surprised by the shadow of contrition he found there. John released the breath he'd been holding. His raised shoulders slumped. Running a hand through his hair, he shrugged at his flatmate then pushed the play button with a lax thumb. His friend was right. He was neglecting himself. But somehow John couldn't be arsed to care. 

John was exhausted. The year had gotten off to a rocky start. Jeannette ending things after their disastrous date at Christmas. Adler bursting upon him and Sherlock like a naked, leather-wielding whirlwind. 

There had been far too much nudity for John's comfort recently. Watching Bruce Willis and Bonnie Bedelia square off tensely, he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image of Irene's oddly off-putting strawberry cream flesh. The image of Sherlock's sheet clad bare legs, arms and..other things intruded into his brain. He rolled his eyes, at himself this time, and stared at the screen. His fingers suddenly twitching with a strange itch to gently encircle Sherlock's ankle. The vulnerable exposed skin resting so close to him.

His own words and Irene's echoed in his brain. _"For the record, if anyone cares, I am not gay." "I am, yet look at us both."_

John ate some more popcorn. He felt Sherlock watching him. Alan Rickman made his entrance. John stopped focusing on what Sherlock was doing, or thinking about. 

"Hubert." 

John paused the film again. "Seriously? John Hubert Watson? My parents were awful, but not stupid." 

"Oh, it's got a certain ring to it. An old world appeal." 

"Maybe in your circles. That would have gotten me basted in primary school." 

Sherlock mumbled something.

"What was that?"

"Being Sherlock Holmes was no picnic." They exchanged glances. Sherlock looked away first, drawn inward to another time. John looked down at Sherlock's ankle again. This time he gave in to temptation. Settled his hand on the cool, pale skin. 

"Geniuses can be idiots sometimes, too." Sherlock gave him a sharp look, his eyes narrowed in defense and surprise. John shook his head. "Not you." He gave a rueful grin, eyes following the curve formed where the slender calf met the long, graceful foot beneath his hand. "I mean, 'Mycroft' and 'Sherlock?' What on earth would they have done with a girl?"

Sherlock relaxed. A half smirk quirked the corner of his mouth. "I shudder to think." 

John started up the film again. He reluctantly put his hand back into his lap. Sherlock's feet squirmed a moment, digging deeper beneath John's leg. The man pulled his silky dressing gown closer about him. Not looking directly over at his flatmate, John pulled down the afghan they had folded on the back of the sofa and tossed half over to Sherlock, keeping one end on his lap. 

The film rolled on. John's body softened. He found his hand on Sherlock's leg again, safely shielded by the polite barrier of the blanket this time. John allowed himself not to think about it. 

The fire burned low. Explosions rocked the Nakatomi Plaza. John McClane ran barefoot across broken glass. John made a joke about a case Sherlock had investigated shoeless. Sherlock harrumphed from where he lay, now curled up beneath the blanket. But John was rather sure he saw a smile on his face. Agile toes pinched John's trousers and tugged. John felt a warm glow in his belly.

 _Not all bad living here._

* * *

John drifted towards consciousness, a sensation tugging at him. Something was odd. He was warm, yet uncomfortable. The blanket rested on him - oh, he'd fallen asleep on the couch. His cheek rested on something smooth. A soothing heat met his flesh. 

He was lying half on top of Sherlock. 

_Don't panic. Oh God, where the hell is my hand?_

"It's fine, John."

Sherlock was awake. 

"Yes, I am. I rarely sleep, you know that." 

John raised his eyes blearily. Sherlock sat leaning his shoulders against the arm of the chair. With idle swipes he browsed something on his phone. John husked, "I said that out loud, did I?"

Sherlock didn't smile, but his eyes looked amused. "The circuit seems to be quite short between your mouth and that little brain of yours." 

"Oi!" John tried to push himself up, but found that his arm had started tingling. His elbow buckled and he slid down again, landing not softly on Sherlock's lower ribs. The sharp pain in his neck twanged, his nerves shouting.

"Stop squirming," Sherlock admonished sharply. He tucked a foot between John's knees.

_What the hell is happening?_

"Tedious. Stop panicking, John. Your virtue is intact." Sherlock took a breath, then released it. "It's chilly. You are warm. You fell asleep." He paused, looking back at his phone, rolling his eyes. "This won't turn you gay." 

John froze. Well, he hadn't been moving, technically, but his breath halted and his limbs tensed. Adler's words pounded through his mind, echoing the thrum of his pulse. 

He felt on the edge of saying something he'd only brushed across admitting to himself. He remembered the first time he was deployed into live battle. The adrenaline. The feeling of being on the edge of something. The one way nature of the flow. Like stepping into a river and not knowing where on the other bank he would find himself after the current washed him where it would. If he'd remain standing. 

"About that." 

Sherlock stilled. John felt his own heart beat rapidly. His hand tightened where it lay on Sherlock's hip, until John realized what he was doing. He loosened his grip and retracted his arm, laying it stiffly along his own side. His body an awkward burden of a sudden.

_Coward._

He'd bedded so many women. Tasted their interest, buoyed their spirits, felt his own ego flush with the pulse of their desire. The gift of heated hand touching soft, vulnerable skin. The satisfaction of giving pleasure, and receiving in return. He'd found warm moments with men, during university and then in Afghanistan. The laughing contact of a game turning to brief but passionate fulfilment. The relief of returning back to base whole collapsing into a grateful, life affirming mutual wank. But this... 

John had no idea where he stood, no precedent to help him navigate this relationship, no map to help him have any idea where crossing this boundary might land him. Back in the trash heap of abandonment and despair he'd been in before he met Sherlock. A bare year separated the energized, challenged, typically overwhelmed but always fascinated self that now walked the streets of London, from the husk of a man he'd been. Clutching his anger in one hand and his revolver in the other. Each day a question not even so much of how he would make it, but more when would his tenuous hold break. When would he let it go? 

_Wait, nearly a year? Isn't it exactly a year since.._.

John realized he'd not said what he meant yet. Instead, he blurted, "Its our anniversary."

Sherlock seemed to start breathing again. John felt the man's lanky length relax in every fiber. Sherlock's hips twisted, and then his whole body turned to face John. Feet slotted in place around John's knee. He felt cool fingers tentatively touch his hair. Pet lightly. A warmth he'd felt the evening before rekindled. John breathed deep and moved his hand back to Sherlock's hip. 

A whisper from Sherlock, as if more than half afraid John would hear. "Happy Anniversary, John."

John remained silent. Shocked. 

Sherlock's hand moved away, and he turned his shoulders to lay on his back again. Staring up at the ceiling. "What were you saying, John?" 

Suddenly John had to speak. Urgently. He raised himself on an elbow, ignoring twinges of pain, and peered over at Sherlock. 

"That thing, what I say. You know." 

_Apparently not eloquently, however._

Sherlock tensed, waiting. Not returning John's gaze. He nodded slightly though. 

"I am not gay." John took a deep breath. The light and the heat and the sand before him once more. "I'm bi. Bisexual. I like--"

"I know what the word means, John." Sherlock's voice was brittle, abrupt. John sought his eyes but they remained hidden from him.

John breathed. His body pulled in the air, a deep draft of life. He felt the solidity of the warm body beside him. He allowed himself, very lightly, to feel a place in himself he'd left behind a very long time ago. 

_Happiness, John. It won't bite._

_Won't it?_

John reached out and plucked at Sherlock's lapel. He rested his hand on Sherlock's chest, pulling the fabric firmly. Wordlessly asking the man to look at him. He felt calm. He felt hopeful.

Sherlock turned his head towards John. Open. Undefended. 

_Would I recognize him wearing that look? If I saw him on the street?_

Sherlock's hand alighted on John's aching shoulder. Clever fingers started sliding softly over knotted muscle, digging in. 

John stopped thinking and pulled Sherlock close. Their grateful, impatient bodies clung together. Their hearts...

_Shhhhh....._


End file.
